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food

February 23, 2015

Over the weekend it was just me, Izzy, and Winnie hanging out. Roger and Caroline were in California for a volleyball tournament and Sophie...well, Sophie is away at school! I keep forgetting that, if you can believe it. I mean, I know she's not around, but sometimes I fail to grasp she's actually gone.

I struggle with this concept in general--distinguishing between true reality and the one inside my head. I know there's a difference but if I'm not vigilant, it can blur.

I did a lot of cooking for some reason. Perhaps it would make more sense not to cook when it's just us girls but lately, and I think it's due to Caroline's fascination with Ina Garten, I've come to fancy myself quite the proficient in the kitchen. I mean, I've always been pretty familiar with the goings on in that area of the house: a firmly rooted childhood memory is standing over a bowl of some concoction with an electric beater in my hand.

I love how cooking is reduced to ratios and concepts, how basic methods of preparation may be applied to the advent of any dish. Of course, I'm no barefoot contessa so take everything I say with a grain of salt, but essentially it is less about strict measurements and more about vibes, about grasping the rhythm of proper temperatures, of wet and dry ingredients, of sugar to cut the acidic and of course my favorite: butter vincit omnia.

Butter conquers all.

Much of Izzy's weekend was occupied with music in some form or another. On Sunday her quartet played in an ensemble competition and won first place!

The experience left me feeling grateful...not for the win or anything like that, but for the wonder of seeing someone so deeply content. Izzy never fails to intrigue me, her interests are varied and intense. She is one game girl, curious and outward while at the same time quiet and thoughtful. Perhaps more than enjoying the performance, I was happiest to see how she interacted with the other quartet members off stage. They spend a lot of time together and I can see it's a great friendship with lots of laughs, interesting conversations, and genuine concern.

The musical part is a privilege, but in my mind it's something of an extra. What really matters is to see this greater development of character, this ability to connect with others, to share interests, to make something beautiful together which comes through effort, collaboration, and love.

December 30, 2014

On a Sunday evening shortly before the holiday break, Caroline approached me with tears in her eyes. She was overwhelmed by the prospect of the upcoming week, by the demands of her school schedule peppered with concerts and extra events, with looming tests and projects piled high on her plate. She was exhausted, not feeling especially well, and I could see she was on the verge of losing all hope.

How do you rally someone in such a dark moment? How do you access her will to fight on?

Well, when that person has passed the point of reason, when logic has long since flown the coop and all forms of stoicism or wheedling pep talks have disintegrated like ash in the face of her awful despair, then only one resort remains while the entire universe hangs in the balance.

Some call it bribery. I prefer: enticement.

But it can't be something vulgar and banal like cash, cars, or ponies...though I could certainly be enticed by a pony!

No, when it comes to Caroline, it has to be destination enticement. It has to incorporate collaboration, creativity, and fun...and it's best served up with plenty of options.

So I wiped her tears and whispered: Caroline, if you can get through this next week then you may choose one of three things: 1) a trip to Sprouts to buy gummy worms which we'll take to the library and hide away for the rest of the afternoon, 2) watching a cooking show together, then we'll make the dish they prepare, or 3) taking a long walk in the desert, then we'll come home for hot chocolate.

She perked up right away, I could see it. It wasn't like she jumped up and started marching around the room, mind you. No, she continued to lay there like a limp noodle. But I could see it. I could hear the gears moving.

Of course, by the next day I'd completely forgotten my promise according to the capacity of my brain, which rarely retains anything beyond a period of five minutes. Not Caroline, though. She clamped onto my words with a vise-like grip and didn't forget them for one minute. They must have burned brightly in her mind, illuminating her spirits through her darkest moments, because on Friday after school she burst into the house exclaiming, "I made it! I made it through the week! And now I can't decide which of our three activities to choose!"

I stared at her blankly.

But as Caroline has a tendency to speak every thought aloud, it wasn't long before she brought me right back up to speed.

After much deliberation and second guessing, she settled upon the cooking show option.

So we sat down and watched our very first episode of The Barefood Contessa. On this particular show, Ina Garten demonstrated how to make her world famous chocolate cheesecake. It was marvelous! It was divine! We watched in wonder as she melted chocolate in a bain marie, as she reached into a large glass bowl filled with luminous eggs, as she pressed a button on her food processor and zap!--instant graham cracker crumbs.

We heard her say: clean hands are a chef's best tools. We gazed at fresh bunches of herbs and beautiful frying pans. We saw her husband Jeffrey appear out of nowhere just in time to sample the finished product.

In short, we were completely smitten.

But time got away from us and even though I collected the ingredients and secured a springform pan, it wasn't until last weekend, the day of Sophie's graduation dinner, we found a free moment in the kitchen to make a world famous cheesecake for our dear graduate.

We had clean hands. We had luminous eggs. We had the time of our lives.

And that cake was something else, I'm telling you. By way of warning I recommend the slightest pinch, the faintest sliver. In fact, I recommend admiring it from afar. Better yet, run for the hills. You are completely over your head with that cheesecake, dear reader. You are like a lamb in the lion's den. You think you're going to eat it and move on with your life, but that creation has other plans. Even now, as I write this, I feel something watching me and I know it's the cheesecake.

But the promise of that cake got Caroline through a week she was certain she could not survive. And the serendipity of making it on the occasion of her sister's graduation party was almost more happiness than her little heart could bear.

April 09, 2014

Normally such a statement would rank up there with: I just found a talking seahorse and he wants to be my friend!

But when I stop to consider the leave of absence my metabolism has taken in the past year, it raises my concern a notch. Or perhaps that was my belt. Either way...this latest thing he's making is...breadsanity.

If I had to spend the rest of my life on a desert island and could take along just one item, it would be pain de mie. I'd nibble it into the shape of a seahorse and talk to it for awhile, then keep nibbling because I noticed something assymetrical. By the time I had things evened out, the seahorse would be gone and I'd be in a state of total shock.

If I was rushing out of a burning building and realized the top floor was a bakery specializing in pain de mie, well...let's just say I'd be the hero of the day or die trying.

If I was kidnapped and the kidnapper demanded a ransom from my husband of a thousand loaves of pain de mie, I would chew through my gag and shout: DON'T DO IT!! And if the kidnapper wheeled on me in a state of rage for ruining his phone call, I'd alternate between laughing my head off and telling him what it's like to eat a piece of toasted pain de mie.

August 20, 2013

I recently came into the possession of a large crate of mangoes, dear reader. Whenever that happens, there's only one direction to proceed and it involves milk, yogurt, and a half-hearted blender.

Basically, there's two ways to make a mango lassi: the authentic way and my way, which involves adding anything within reach I happen to feel like pureeing to smithereens.

More often than not, this ends up being a half-hearted banana.

Technically, that demotes my lassi to a smoothie, but don't call it that. Don't call it a smoothie when it could be a lassi.

Don't call anything a smoothie when it could be a lassi.

To my way of thinking, it's the mango-yogurt pairing which qualifies it to lassi status no matter what else I may or may not add to the brew.

No, I don't speak for the Indian culture at large nor a cuisine which predates me by millenia...but it's not going to be as fun if I have to sit there thinking I'm sipping a smoothie when I could sit there thinking I'm sipping a lassi.

That's just how my head works.

One last clarification since I know you're all too polite to enquire:

Is it common for the Tollipop clan to sit down to dinner at a table strewn with fishbowls?

July 05, 2013

I hope you had a lovely day yesterday, dear reader, especially if you happen to live in/come from the United States.

I was raised with a strong sense of patriotism, with a love of country and of this beautiful world. Even as a child it resonated in my bones, the thought all men are created equal, that we are meant to live in freedom with the responsibilities this entails, with love and respect for one another.

I often reflect upon the origins of this country, in awe of indeed how revolutionary the founding principles were within the context of that time, of the overwhelming odds against them. To this day I see the United States striving to emulate ideals of equality, opportunity, and independence. I do not see perfection nor would I expect to, but I'm nevertheless touched by its remarkable achievements, by the great spirit and possibility which affect me every day through the gift of living in this land.

I also reflect upon the price of such ideals in a world where people are often motivated to take them away. I feel a profound sense of gratitude for anyone who has sacrificed to establish or protect this wonderful way of life.

Having said that...how did I spend my Independence Day?

Well, first thing in the morning as always, I checked on my beetles.

Guess where they were hiding?

Beneath the watermelon, of course! I think they like the moist covering and the fact they can revel in bacchanalia all night long.

I don't know why, but it makes me happy to have figured this out, to know this much about them.

July 01, 2013

It's like a furnace in Las Vegas, dear reader, so over the weekend we made a quick trip to the beach. It would've been lovely, except I was under the weather...still, it's amazing what the ocean and a little Charles Portis can do to take one's mind off wanting to crawl beneath a rock.

He's one of the few writers who make me laugh out loud. Even now, I'm sitting here recalling what he said about the main character reading an old lady's story, and I quote:

Melba had broken the transition problem wide open by starting almost every paragraph with "moreover." She freely used "the former" and "the latter" and every time I ran into one of them I had to backtrack to see whom she was talking about. She was also fond of "inasmuch" and "crestfallen."

I'm not the type of person who laughs excessively, unless I'm on some kind of roll. But Portis's stuff makes me giggle.

Sometimes I fantasize about having a personal reader...someone with a resonant voice who would follow me around, reading aloud. Charles Portis is the kind of writer you're better off reading on your own. You need to follow at your own pace...meander a bit, shake your head, try not to smile.

At any rate, I just received a text from my little brother calling me on the carpet for not having posted about Canada Day. So I checked his blog and guess what: his post is about Hamlet, for crying out loud.

But I am thinking of the place where I grew up today. It never really leaves me.

In other disastrous news, Caroline has announced herself as the new baker laureate of the family.

We're plowing through butter, sugar, and eggs like nobody's business, though all too often I make it my business.

Then again, it's Canada Day, dear reader. Let's kick back and celebrate, let's get a little crazy. Whether you're Canadian or not, I hope something nice happens to you.

Listen, dear reader. Being absentminded is not for the faint of heart.

If you're going to refuse to follow a recipe, if you're going to launch into the making of fudge without a candy thermometer, harboring contempt for certain ingredients (maple syrup...hello? you belong on pancakes), timing it so you have to take a break in between to conduct your church choir for an hour when you should, in fact, be finishing what you started, then guess what?

You are going to fail. You're going to take it on the chin.

There are probably loads of clichés out there about how failure is the unwitting springboard to some new and totally unforeseen success.

This much I know: they were never devised by someone who can make fudge.

But consider for a moment: who could've guessed the fallout from my doomed fudge attempt would yield these pretty lollies??

(No, I'm not saying that with a straight face. I know failure when I see it.)

What can I tell you, dear reader? This is not my first time at the rodeo. I'm no stranger to playing chicken with a recipe. If you're going to live life on the edge, as I do, if you're going to opt for the hardcore daze, then you'd better get ready for the consequences. You'd better brace yourself for some ruined fudge and count your blessings if that's the worst you ever know.

Only don't actually count them, your blessings. Just round to the nearest ten.

But if, on the other hand, you happen to like the sound of this, if you're okay with succeeding only some of the time, if you think you have what it takes to be as daringly incompetent as I am, then here is the application for my club.

If you end up losing it before you forget to fill it out, that's how you know you're in.

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p.s. One more thing...I was recently nominated for an award at Apartment Therapy...in the category of Best Family and Kids blog. Oh, how that makes me cringe! How that makes me wonder! I'm surprised Tollipop has not been arrested and locked in the pillories by now...do they not screen? Do they not check for content?!

But I will say I was sincerely touched by the gesture. And it reminded me it's been a long time since I thanked you for coming here to visit. It means a lot to think you find my words worth reading.

I really am working on that novel, by the way. I don't know what will happen, it makes me nervous to speculate. I'm not even sure I can get it done. Writing a novel: it seems like such a brash claim. But I am in the process and enjoying it very much.

If it ever does gets done, this blog and your encouragement will be part of the reason it happened.

January 23, 2013

The reason for the stall? I was holding out for the kind I wanted, thumbprint, while she was stonewalling for the kind which requires rolling pins, cookie cutters, and icing...steps which for me merely translate to: having to wait longer before I can eat a cookie.

Guess who got her way?

At any rate, I pretty much let her handle the entire operation. I supervised, of course, imparting the extent of my culinary wisdom which took roughly half a minute. The main thing she didn't know was how NOT to follow a recipe. And believe me, I had a dickens of a time explaining how this is done:

"Caroline, trust me. It doesn't matter how much vanilla goes into that batter. It's a conspiracy anyway, measuring spoons."

Needless to say, she didn't trust me.

So I had to stand there while she cracked precisely two eggs, went molecular with the baking powder, and dipped the measuring cup into the flour tin, scraping it off evenly with the edge of a butter knife.

Franchement, but Mummy could have used a darkened room and a little aqua vitae after that!

Later that day, Caroline and Izzy assured me they could handle making the icing all by themselves, which is code for you will harsh our buzz in the kitchen, Mum. Like a fool, I consented, forgetting to lay down the one and only ultimatum I insist upon when it comes to the concoction of icing: namely, that it not exceed the depth and intensity of the watermelon colors.

January 04, 2013

Yesterday I looked at Izzy and said, let's go do something fun. She was right on board. I made the same offer to the other girls, but Sophie was hunched over a papercut and Caroline was hunched over a paperdoll.

Paper is serious business at our house, so I had Izzy all to myself.

This is what we call a mummy-daughter date.

A brief aside: when asked about differences between Canada and the United States, I often have to wrack my brain for a scintillating response. We have poutine, yes. We say toque. And let's not forget the Mounties.

One trifling detail is that children call their mothers mum. Not mom. Mum. Sort of a throwback to our Commonwealth ties and fascination with such things as corgis, high teas, clotted cream, and dowager duchesses.

So when I moved to Las Vegas and nothing seemed familiar, nothing reminded me of Canada in the least, I taught my girls this lovely word that felt like home more than anything else.

For our date, we went to a noodle shop. Few things make me happier than sharing foods from other cultures with my girls, to watch them try new dishes and hopefully enjoy them as much as I do.

What is not to love about ramen? That stuff is amazing. So yummy, so fun to eat.

Best of all, to visit with my teenager who is growing so quickly, taking this world in leaps and bounds, and observe how even our exchanges have become. She still asks me tons of questions, but we talk more and more on a similar wavelength and less like a mum and her little girl.

It's breathtaking, this dynamic.

What else did we do? At Izzy's request, we visited a Korean market and stocked up on fun things for lunches plus candy to share with our friends.